He wore no coat or smock, but a waistcoat with long sleeves and a pair of fustian trousers bound below the knee with leather straps to prevent them from dragging in the mire.
His boots were of the usual clodhopping description, in weight about four pounds, and studded with nails like the door of a prison.
Although his costume was not particularly becoming, there was something in his voice and manner which showed that he was of a different race to the other labourers on the farm.
Nevertheless there was something in his countenance that betokened an absence of moral principle; a restlessness, and an expression of cunning seemed to pervade it.
There was something in his grey eyes which to a physiognomist would have afforded food for speculation and inquiry.
Mr. Jamblin sprang forward and seized the youngster by the collar, at which he did not appear to be surprised.
“You audacious circumventing young wagabond,” shouted out the farmer; “I’ve been a waitin’ for you, my pretty manakin. I’ll teach you to put metal collars round my hares’ necks, you rascal.”
“Will you, master?”
“Yes, I will. What have you to say for yourself?”
“What have I say? Well, if you will listen I’ll tell you, sir.”